


Nor Love Nor Wisdom

by Elleth



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dysfunctional Relationships, M/M, Manipulation, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-31
Updated: 2013-08-31
Packaged: 2017-12-25 04:06:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/948436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elleth/pseuds/Elleth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After an Orc incursion leaves Finrod wounded, he finds himself in close quarters with Curufin, who is pursuing an agenda of his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nor Love Nor Wisdom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ParadifeLoft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ParadifeLoft/gifts).



> For James. I hope the story fits at least some of the ideas you outlined in your request. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to explore these two (three) more in-depth.

A murder of crows was circling over a hill bordering Tumhalad in the north. Beyond it the woods of Núath swam as a red line against the autumn afternoon, and in the east the sky was already fading into a haze of gold and a ruin of clouds in the afternoon light. It still stretched, high and blue and cloudless, overhead. Curufin, lowering his spyglass, stretched a fist into the air. Dust, a remnant of the long summer, scattered into the air as the host sprang forward following his gesture. 

They made their way down a long slope and up a steeper one to the north, and familiar eyes easily picked out a site of former conflict: Swaths of trampled grass that stood yellow and knee-high elsewhere on the hills, spatters of blood, and in the dust the colours – red or black – were indistinguishable. Edrahil, pushing his horse (a mare, and slighter than Curufin's own) alongside Curufin, gave him a probing look, but kept his own face inscrutable, as though trying to discern the intent behind the brisk ride – it was none of the delay tactics Orodreth had feared and counselled him against, bidding him speed the whole venture if it were within his power. Edrahil, white-faced and thin-lipped, had accepted with a nod, and with some difficulty pulled a mask over his expression, one that more befitted Curufin than himself. 

While they rode, the signs of battle became surer – that Finrod and his following had met an Orc host and fled before them to higher ground was known; a scraggle of four had been dispersed in the chaos, their horses had been possessed by madness from the sudden assault and borne them away, but being trusty beasts in the end had carried their riders back to Nargothrond in the night. 

And Orodreth, with a face that heralded a storm of anger and worry brewing behind his eyes, had looked to Celegorm and Curufin – the brothers worked well together, and if any of the Orcs had survived the initial battle, they would be taken at unawares by the brothers as between two scissoring blades of a half-company each. The most worrying was the absence of a messenger heralding either success or defeat, and potentially the ruin of a substantial part of Nargothrond's council – for High King Fingon had called an urgent assembly of the lords of Beleriand, that Maedhros attended from Himring, Círdan from the Havens, and, supposedly, even a handful of reluctant envoys out of Doriath, and Finrod from Nargothrond, trailing his retinue. Edrahil had been designated by Finrod himself to head those councillors who remained in Nargothrond, but the attack had changed those dynamics.

The next time Curufin lifted his glass again, his lips curled. " _Someone_ is still alive, and they are likely our people, and sure of the battle won. Unless they are seeking to draw them, they must be sure of no other enemy hosts in the area. So far into the south Orcs would hardly be fools enough to light a fire to give away their presence." 

As he spoke, a ribbon of smoke rose from the hill, growing darker and fuller swiftly, until a plume hung over the hilltop, visible even to the naked eye for miles around.

"Hardly a beacon either, that appears more like a pyre for the Orcs," Edrahil agreed. "But burning the dead is not Orc-work." 

"No," said Curufin, quick and clipped, and continued staring at Edrahil until his horse, sensing his discomfort, began to dance beneath him, bearing him to the side, and the eye contact was broken. 

* * * 

With the fire making proper search unnecessary, distance as the only obstacle fell away beneath the swift trot of the horses, and the riders reached the hill before nightfall. The final battle had taken place on its southern slope, wooded with pines, and with larches that stood in resplendent autumn gold amid the other trees. Edrahil breathed deeply, but the moment was marred by the work around them: Still people were busy hoisting the last of the Orc cadavers to the hilltop toward the pyre. Curufin only stopped briefly and never bothered to dismount. "The King!" he called.

"On the hilltop, my lord. They are tending to him and others there as best they can," answered one of the people of Finrod's retinue. Hearing the answer, Curufin snapped into a rigid demeanour, nodded, and dug his heels into his horse's sides until it sprang up the hill. Edrahil, frowning, followed more slowly, although his worry for Finrod coiled into a cold, hard thing in his stomach. 

Two tents had been erected on the hilltop, hidden in the greying shadows of a copse there, as far as possible from the pyre of the Orcs, and a cluster of people – some of the nobles of Nargothrond while their retainers laboured below – had gathered to sit near the guards at the entrance. From within there was no sound. 

A couple of the onlookers rose to their feet while Curufin and Edrahil passed; two found themselves with the reins of the horses pressed into their hands. Curufin, dismounting, seemed to draw up straight to a snapping point; he always carried himself impeccably but now there was a metal stiffness to his movements that hinted at some underlying tension that he yet refused to reveal, if he intended to reveal it at all. 

He shouldered past the lords and swiped the tent flap aside with an iritated movement of his hand. Edrahil hesitated for a moment – uncertain whether Curufin would take kindly to an interruption, but his worry won out, and he ducked into the dim interior of the tent. A low coal brazier, giving off heat but little light, burned by Finrod's bedstead, where he lay prone. Finrod's face was turned aside and hair piled into an awkward bun, and Curufin was – already - kneeling by him, a hand splayed between Finrod's bare shoulderblades. Under his fingers were bandages, and the muscles of Finrod's shoulders twitched, while he hissed softly between his teeth. So he was awake, and perhaps not as gravely wounded as feared. Edrahil felt the tension seep from him, leaving only a residual weakness in his knees. He sat on a pile of discarded tarp out of the way, and waited.

"So, cousin, tell me what happened." While Edrahil still lingered in the background, Curufin seemed largely oblivious to his presence, or at the very least pretended not to notice him: "There was barely a coherent word from the fools that made it back," and at that there was a disapproving murmur from Finrod, but the words came slurred and for the most part incomprehensible, like a man's out of sleep, or speaking through a haze of drugs. Nonetheless he propped himself up on one arm and let his head fall against Curufin's chest, murmuring more that was lost to Edrahil's ears, but Curufin, glancing just barely in his direction, smiled in a way that Edrahil could not find endearing. He slipped an arm around Finrod to support him, shifting his hand away from the bandage, now revealing a single large point of blood between shoulderblade and spine, enough for Edrahil to start to his feet again. 

"That was -" 

"- a needle bodkin arrowhead, yes, and not one of shoddy craftsmanship, for it to force apart chainmail of my make." Curufin finished the sentence in a tone of irritation. Whether that was directed at the interruption or the admittance – or both – was hard to determine, and the forbidding scowl on his face did its part for Edrahil to hesitate in a forward stride. 

It was then that Finrod freed himself of Curufin's hold and pushed entirely into a sitting position, not without a grimace of pain twisting his features. He seemed to deliberate for a moment, attempting to grasp at some dizzy thought spinning through his head, and then he waved Edrahil closer. Curufin was, for the moment, forgotten. 

Edrahil dropped to one knee. "My lord, I am relieved to see you alive. We feared the worst." 

Finrod's hand landed heavily on his head and rested there, his fingertips just barely digging into Edrahil's hair. 

"Edrahil," Finrod said, and he lifted his gaze to the bed. Finrod, it seemed, was trying hard to enunciate and think clearly in a matter of great importance that sought to elude his mind again. His pupils were constricted to pinpoints, despite the dimness in the tent, and the usual blue of his eyes seemed unnaturally wide. It was now that Edrahil did not doubt in the slightest that whatever healer had gone with the host had administered drugs that also explained Finrod's drowsy sluggishness. Curufin hung in the background, a glowering shadow. 

"Edrahil. I need you to ride to - to - to Barad Eithel. I am not fit to go." 

Behind him, Curufin snorted, but refrained from a comment. Edrahil lowered his head, and Finrod's fingers tangled in his hair a little further. "Of course, my lord. It is near to nightfall now; I shall use the time to take counsel with your lords, and we will continue our way on the morrow." 

Finrod did not answer. The effort to sit and speak must have exhausted him; he sagged where he was sitting, and his eyes had slipped near-closed. Edrahil made to ease him down onto his stomach again, but Curufin, from the other side of the bed, intercepted his movement and prised Edrahil's hands away. 

"You ought to make up for the lost day," he said, rubbing a loose strand of Finrod's hair between two fingers ever so briefly, before smoothing it back from Finrod's forehead. "And ride as soon as you can, lest the High King is kept waiting. Give my regards to my brother." Once he saw Finrod lying down, Curufin rose and strode from the tent, with nary a look back. 

* * * 

Edrahil eventually exited, after sitting vigil by Finrod until the healer had returned from the second tent where she had tended to the other casualties of the battle, to make certain that he breathed easily and did not suddenly perish in his sleep. Curufin was sitting in the grass at the edge of the hilltop beside Celegorm, who must have arrived in the meantime, and they were toying with a curious crow perched on his knee that Celegorm fed shreds of bread. 

Edrahil decided that he had dealt with the sons of Fëanor enough for one day, and instead went to keep his promise to Finrod and ready everything for a departure at daybreak, with as many men as were capable of travel and needed to protect them in case of another attack. The rest of the host was to encamp until the wounded were capable of travel or transportation to return to Nargothrond to recuperate fully. It was a relief to discover from conversation that the Orcs had been routed to the very last one, so tidings of their defeat would fail to go north until their due time back. Finrod, riding in the forefront of battle, had been swiftly surrounded and unhorsed, and some archer or another had taken the chance just as the leader of the Orcs fell. Briefly Edrahil wished that that particular Orc still lived, if only to deliver him the death-blow himself. Then he bit his lip and shook his head, and hurried back to familiarize himself with the details and diplomatic conundrums that he would be expected to navigate at Eithel Sirion.

Throughout the night, when he crossed the free space between the tents – inquiring with the healer about the number and gravity of casualties, arranging a messenger to Nargothrond, seeing that the perfunctory fortifications at the bottom of the hill were manned and patrols arranged for - he thought he felt Curufin's stare following him, and wondered if Finrod's drugged favouritism would cause him to suffer unexpected consequences upon his return, but he discarded this thought again swiftly, or at least sought to. Curufin would not truly stoop so low, not over a ridiculous game of possessiveness that he had become embroiled in unexpectedly, out of righteous worry for the king. If he had any dark designs, then they were less petty than such considerations.

* * * 

Still confined to his bed the second afternoon after Edrahil's departure to the north, Finrod had grown short-tempered and gave little pretense to even attempt to conceal his annoyance with most matters of camp life. His right arm had been bound in a sling to stave off further aggravation to his shoulder, which did nothing to improve his mood, and when the tent flap opened to reveal Curufin bearing a bowl of broth, he failed to offer a civil response at seeing Curufin again. 

"I do not care whether your brother succeeded in shooting another white hind on patrol unless it was in league with the Orcs or it led him to discover the area is unsafe, and I appreciate your attempts to show concern, but in frank speech I couldn't care less if you took the broth and fed it to Huan. I have no appetite and your interruptions will do nothing to ingratiate yourself with me more than you already did." 

For a moment Curufin appeared to be taken aback by the frank speech that was so often masked by Finrod's kindness, but even so a smirk stole onto his face as he set the bowl of broth down only a little outside Finrod's reach. It seemed that Finrod's anger manifested as a certain cool light, a brightness of his eyes and a twist of his mouth that did everything to make him interesting. Curufin sat and watched Finrod's mouth twist further to find his request to be left alone ignored. 

"If you are so insistent to be in my company," Finrod said, now with an audible strain, "then tell me at the very least why you have not returned to Nargothrond and what you want of me." 

"The pleasure of your company, cousin," Curufin answered, with no outward hint to the contrary. "Someone needs to look after you."

"Are you just coming to me to vex me further?" A note of tiredness crept into Finrod's voice at that. "Not only am I considered unfit to travel yet, not only are several of my best men dead and others wounded, no, someone saw it fit to punish me with your presence." The words were hardly softened by Finrod's tone, nor by the halfway apologetic glance that he gave Curufin.

"Consider that we are both currently unable to attend to our usual duties. I would certainly question the judgement of anyone bringing a portable forge on a diplomatic mission, all the same it leaves me without other work to do, and I might as well make a study of you instead." Curufin rolled his shoulders. "I am not inclined to abandon the only remotely interesting thing to do over your personal objections, and I have heard others say that if left to your own devices here, you will brood too much."

"I daresay an Orc incursion so far into my territory is reason to brood! It is not enough that Minas Tirith is taken; if the sorcerer holding the isle sees avenue to push this far south – if the Orcs remained in the shadows of the Ered Wethrin, crossed Narog at its headwaters and then pushed south, they have discovered a viable route, and one that is hard to secure at that. Do you not think that reason to brood? The sorcerer's plans for sending such a force are entirely in the dark as well, although it seems likely that the captives taken in the assault on the isle betrayed Nargothrond's location. The Orcs were too well-armed and fought with too much purpose before I slew their leader to be merely an accidental group of stragglers that had strayed into the south while afield to pillage, and even then the woodsmen of Brethil would make easier sport than Nargothrond."

"Only a fool would deny that the arm of the North has grown long, but I wonder whether this is not merely a fancy of Orodreth's that is weighing on your mind. He has been fearing an incursion ever since he lost Tol Sirion, and spoke of it more than merited. Were there any emblems, wargs that the Orcs rode in the attack, anything but the status of their equipment that leads you to believe they were not merely a force, but a force from the isle with its purpose bent upon Nargothrond?" 

Finrod hesitated and, it seemed, attempted to remember particulars of the battle. "No," he said eventually, wearily. "Not to my knowledge; there are no such details that stand out in my memory. Of course my men followed the usual procedure to dispatch of the bodies, but speak with one of the captains to find where they kept the Orcs' weapons and armour, and perhaps that will be a better project to satisfy your mind than pestering me so incessantly." 

"Still such arrant annoyance. You might benefit from more sleep," Curufin said smoothly. "If all you are able to do for the moment is gripe, then I will leave you to your own company."

It was a sting that failed to needle Finrod, or at least to do so openly.

"Good. You may consider our rules to hang in abeyance here, but you are still one of my people, and my patience runs short with your capering. Remember that you swore fealty." 

He waved Curufin closer with a flick of his fingers. "Or perhaps you need reminding." Finrod's ring of office rested on his left index finger – no longer the two twining snakes, but the crown of Nargothrond in gold, studded with a band of emerald flakes. Curufin's lips curled back before he bent to kiss it, and felt Finrod shudder beneath his mouth. 

"A most necessary reminder – _cousin_." 

* * *

Curufin returned whistling through his teeth. Finrod lay prone again, but the tent flap had been drawn back to let sunset light spill in onto the pages of the book before him. He was scratching tengwar onto the page with his left hand, and feigned to ignore Curufin until he sat on the side of the bed and ran a hand up Finrod's back, over his hale shoulder. Curufin's fingers crooked, just once, to dig into a bruise there.

Swifter than expected, Finrod discarded the quill and grabbed a fistful of Curufin's hair, pulling down until Curufin's breath puffed across his neck in a gasp.

"You are not truly surprised, are you?" Finrod said. "What possessed you to make you think you could hurt me, even just for your sport? I thought to discuss Khuzdul with you to bide the time, but perhaps not." 

Curufin said nothing, and his lashes lowered in apparent satisfaction; he turned his head a fraction until his nose brushed Finrod's hair where it lay curled at the nape of his neck, ever so slightly breathing out again. 

"You will be hurt much worse in the future unless you concern yourself less with my taunting you, and more with the defense of your realm," Curufin said in a low voice, brushing his lips against Finrod's ear now, and lingering there as he spoke. "You were right; they _did_ hail from Tol-in-Gaurhoth. Would you have me volunteer the information, or would you rather ask for it?" He sounded immensely pleased. 

Finrod, despite the rising agitation of having Curufin so close and revealing such news, laughed briefly. "Clever, but spare me your wisecracks. This is not a game."

Even when Finrod's fingers slacked in his hair in expectation for him to speak, Curufin did not move away. "You did not remember any outstanding details about the Orc host – very unlike you, even taking into account the wound and whatever shock resulted from it, so I sought for familiarities instead – and found them. Many of the higher-ranking Orcs must have been geared from the armouries of Tol Sirion. Vambraces, dirks, arrows, some cuirasses – all bearing Orodreth's sigil, and I dare say it is unlikely for him to have paid a tithe to the sorcerer that took his fortress, not to mention that they lack any maker's mark of me or my smiths that rules out its coming from Nargothrond recently. That still leaves their purpose uncertain, but it lends credence to your idea." 

Curufin drew back then, to observe Finrod's face, pulling small plaques of metal from his pocket that had identified the allegiance of an armour-bearer, all enamelled in white and yellow, the crest of the House of Finarfin, but rayed in the manner typical for Orodreth. They were crusted in dirt, scratched, but umistakeable as they scattered on the bed. Finrod turned his head away.

"Is this shocking to you, cousin? Unexpected I would understand, but to drain of colour so entirely – it is only due to the sunset that you are not rivalling a corpse in pallor now. What a pity. I quite liked the flush in your cheeks," Curufin said. 

"I want the presence of archers on Talath Dirnen increased, and extended northward along the upper reaches of the Narog. I want a tower on this hill and the next - moated - and a garrison of rangers stationed here," Finrod said. He sat up stiff and still, but his eyes moved, focusing on the few items in the tent in swift succession, as though he were unsure of his focus. "Bring me my armour; there is no time to waste. I will ride for Nargothrond tonight, whether or not all the healers in the world approve. As long as we lie this open to a new threat, I will fail to rest easy here or elsewhere; once the building is begun I will agree to rest and recuperate as long as they would wish me to." 

"You cannot yet hold a quill in your right hand; what makes you think that you would be able to rein your horse?" 

"Necessity. I crossed the Grinding Ice; a cross-country ride ought not slay me." He turned his eyes on Curufin, only briefly, but it was enough to convey that this was not an argument to pursue or joke about – something in the angle of his mouth or the coolness of his eyes convinced that any word of disobedience would not be met with anything resembling benevolence. 

Curufin likewise stood, adjusting his clothes. It seemed that the possibility of sending another messenger had not occured to Finrod; one had been dispatched at the same time as Edrahil on the morning after the battle, bearing a report of casualties, dead and wounded alike, to Nargothrond. And although Curufin's eyes were downcast now, and a hollow, angry feeling spread through his stomach and up his throat at the denial to speak even with a harmless suggestion, lest he risk an explosion, they followed Finrod's movement through the tent, to the corner where he was pulling shirt and cloak and doublet from the trunk of clothes that some obliging person had deposited there, favouring his right side entirely, and looking – still – ready to pass out, either from the sudden and unexpected reaction to the news, or merely the strain of physical activity. 

Curufin wet his lips, choosing his next words with care. "If you still insist on riding, have the bandage changed before, and the opioid your healer administered the first night, more of that as well. If you are intent on hurting yourself, at least do not hold me complicit in it and try to lessen it as much as you can." 

"You have been complicit in far more than _hurting_ , and I will be fine without your false concern, _Curufinwë_ , thank you." While he spoke, Finrod had discarded the sling his arm rested in, and his voice, angry as it was, cracked a little. His right arm fell by his side limply, and even from across the tent Curufin saw a fat bead of sweat rolling down the center of Finrod's back beside the ridges of his spine until it soaked into the bandage. 

"Let me help you with that, cousin," Curufin said after yet another moment's deliberation, softening his voice from anger to strain, and watching Finrod's useless attempt to move his right shoulder high enough to slip into the shirt's sleeve. Curufin half-turned to glare at a shadow passing by the tent's entrace: one of the outriders, merely, making his way through the camp and risking a curious glance. The man hurriedly moved on, and Curufin strode to yank the tent-flap closed for such a semblance of privacy as there could be within a company of riders scattered across the hill. When he turned, Finrod stood near him, blue eyes inscrutable and trained on his face. 

"This is going to hurt," he said, understanding, and grasping Finrod's arm beneath the elbow, eased it into the sleeve. Finrod's noise of pain mingled with the indrawn breath, a most peculiar sound, and Curufin found himself stepping closer. "Now tell me," he said, running his hands over the arm, easing the cramping muscles underneath his fingertips, "why it is that you are so intent on departing with such urgency when you are barely able to?" 

Finrod opened his mouth and Curufin expected an answer, but instead it was a clash of teeth until Finrod bit down hard on Curufin's lip, and a minute shudder ran through them both. It was Curufin who made a sound this time, stifled against Finrod's mouth, and already his hand was snaking around to the back of Finrod's head, the golden hair soft underneath his fingers, tousled from his stay in bed, to pull him closer. The kiss deepened quickly, but grew no gentler. Instead, as Curufin sought to pull away for air, Finrod would not let him, and kissed him harder. Curufin raked his fingers down Finrod's back to break free, a touch half born from familiarity and long use, half a calculated move to have Finrod release him. Finrod uttered a noise of pain to have his wound irritated. Finally, Curufin felt a warmth flare up within him, and stepped closer to his cousin again. 

"If you seek to make this an incentive for me to cease my questions -" He paused and shook his head. "I will gladly take it, but do not doubt that I will merely postpone them until a more opportune moment." 

"If a reprieve is all I can have, I will take that at the very least." Finrod was breathing hard, and the previous pallor had been replaced by a heavy flush on his cheeks, although his eyes had grown no kinder. Curufin moved toward him again, not in expectation of another kiss but rather lowered his head to nip at the junction of Finrod's neck and shoulder, sucking where he had left a mark only the night prior to Finrod's departure. The skin still held the faint yellow of a faded bruise; he bit down and tugging while Finrod's head rolled back and teeth dug into his lower lip to stifle the noises he would make.

"I _will_ find out why you are so reluctant to reveal this," Curufin murmured against Finrod's neck, a splayed hand possessively sweeping over the thin shirt he was wearing, not yet fastened and hanging open, then over the stiffer fabric of his breeches, "but more than that I wonder, are you well enough for this, or would it wear you out needlessly?"

"Delay, perhaps, but not –" Finrod's voice faltered when Curufin began to suck on the old bruise again, and his lips twisted into a smile. "Perhaps we ought to make this a trial of your strength instead. Unless you still object to my hurting you for sport..."

Finrod broke away with a noise of anger, and awkwardly pulled Curufin with him until Finrod backed against the bed and fell onto the cushions, a with a sound that was not merely pain, but indeed almost turned into a moan. Curufin followed him down and settled between his splayed legs, rolling his hips forward as he leaned in. Finrod's hair had come entirely loose and lay like an uneven glory around his head, and Curufin grabbed a handful of it, leaning further down to pin Finrod with his body. "And now, cousin? Can you turn the tables as wont as you are of it usually; shall I for once be the one in power, or will you find some other petty trick that leaves me at your mercy?" 

"Gloating does not become you all that well," Finrod said, for the moment ceasing to struggle and looking up with pupils already blown wide, but when Curufin bent his attention to Finrod's skin, stretched taut over frantic swallowing, creasing over the line of his jaw as his mouth opened soundlessly, that damnable bruise on his left shoulder. Finrod's left hand flew up to the back of Curufin's head, fingers crooked and clawing at his scalp, digging in when Curufin laughed, hot puffs of breath ricocheting off his cousin's skin and back into his face, seeking out a scabbed-over scrape perhaps from chainmail, perhaps from battle, perhaps from Curufin's own hand some days ago, when he could remember cleaning a thin red line from beneath his fingernails that evening while Finrod dozed on the bed with an expression of innocence and contentedness not entirely fitting to the acts that had preceded it. He dipped his head further, let his teeth graze the purpling bruise again before biting down, a quick sharp nip that sent his cousin shuddering and responding with a breathy moan that drove Curufin to kiss him, pause, speak against his lips, "And now, cousin, we need silence, unless you would have others without hear, and what a _scandal_ that would be – immaculate Ingoldo, flawless Findaráto, so willingly savaged by your monstrous cousin - _I wonder_ , would Nargothrond ever look to you again?" 

"Overly hasty," Finrod answered, only half words, half moans, all muffled against Curufin's mouth. "Who would be the victim, who the villain, Curvo?" 

"Villain," Curufin said, and rolled his hips again, pushing fingers over Finrod's mouth to stifle the resulting sound, shuddering at the heat of his mouth, lips closing over skin again, biting a red line along a clavicle, "and _you_ accomplice to the crime, for none with eyes could call you unwilling," and he drew back to look for a moment, Finrod panting beneath him, eyes half-lidded. The light was already dimming, it was sundown without and quiet was settling in the camp. "So whatever sounds you make, be cautious, lest you send your lapdogs running to see what ails the King."

"I – I know. So certain of your leverage," Finrod said then, despite the quivering in his voice, despite the fact that he was still pinned beneath Curufin, despite the fact that Curufin's assault had left flushed, bruising marks in its wake down his neck and chest, despite the fact that it had left Finrod sucking Curufin's fingers into his mouth, teeth grazing the nails, tongue wrapping around his fingertips slick and warm, despite the fact that Finrod's jugular was pulsing a staccato against Curufin's lips, that Finrod ground his hips against him, back arching off the bed until his shoulder strained, his right hand balled into a fist, and Curufin could not help a laugh as his lips pushed against the waistline of Finrod's breeches. Glancing up, he saw Finrod regard him with a calculating stare that nearly made Curufin pull away for the implications in it, saying that he was exactly where Finrod intended him to be, and Finrod's hand tightened in his hair again until Curufin fumbled the breeches open, himself one-handed, the other still pressed over Finrod's mouth, tugging the fabric out of the way, whining low in his throat when Finrod's teeth bit down hard on his fingers and sent a surge of warmth through his stomach and the vestiges of control scattered, lips twisting into a snarl as his mind did likewise, and he bent his head further, blocking out Finrod's gaze, the sure, cool victory in it, and closed his lips over the tip of Finrod's cock, pushing down, yanking back his hand – let his cousin make noise, let them come running, let them see all there was to it, let him scatter Finrod's pre-eminence until his eyes turned glassy and he lay in the pillows like a pretty doll, all mussed golden hair, flushed skin, composure abandoned, and let them twist their frivolous minds and gossip until their lips wore bloody and Nargothrond's halls echoed with their jabbering. 

Curufin's hands twisted into the pillows at the thought, and he choked a noise around Finrod's length, yes, Finrod's hand drew from his hair and likewise went to fumble with his breeches, almost distracted, stilling then, clenching when Curufin sucked, hummed, ceased his movements entirely for his cousin to thrust, let no one say he lacked this knowledge and experience, until a hint of his cousin's fingernails, digging in just so and certainly not entirely accidentally, sent him to spill, and a sharp, stifled gasp made Finrod come scarcely later. 

Curufin withdrew, and laid his head on Finrod's knee to catch his breath. His cousin looked exquisite with the high, satisfied colour in his cheeks and his eyes still so distant and for the moment not nearly as cold and furious as they had been. 

Finrod turned onto his stomach again, shifting aside on the narrow bed a moment later, dragging his legs over to the other side to make room, and left a spot of blood on the blankets in his wake. His wound seemed not to pain him, currently; there was an easy fluency to his movements (apart from his right arm, which he still favoured) that made Curufin wonder if he had forgotten about it temporarily, but both their pairs of eyes were drawn to the blood, and Curufin's to Finrod's back where it had soaked through both the dressing and the linen shirt into the bedding. He curled against it. 

"That will not come out again," he said. "You might as well discard it – or keep it as incriminating evidence, should I ever decide to stab you in the back." Curufin's hand came to rest between Finrod's shoulderblades, and he leaned into the touch. The wound was radiating heat that he could feel even through the shirt, and he bent again to kiss it, coming away with the tang on iron on his lips, mingled with the honey balm the healer must have used. Finrod half-turned to him, his eyes sleepy now, and calmer, his lips still very red and his speech – both theirs - a little sluggish. "Do you intend to?" 

"My answering that question would defeat the purpose of backstabbing, cousin. But not currently. I am still interested in the haste you sought to make earlier." To emphasize his words, Curufin's fingers curled at the edges of the wound. "Why head for Nargothrond now if a few days' delay are certain to make little difference in terms of her safety?" 

"I am more surprised that you have not divined the reason yet," he answered, and his voice grew cooler again, shifting away from the warmth of Curufin's body and suddenly wincing again at the movement. Finrod's voice cracked back into the cold, unhappy thing it had been before. Curufin caught at the tips of his hair and felt more than saw them slip through his fingers as Finrod pulled away further. 

" _You_ mainly lost lands rather than many lives – the war went not nearly as ill with you and your brothers as it did with mine, but all the same I expected you to understand that for yet another realm so obviously the target of a strike, or at least a force of spies – _my realm_ – not a fortress of the leaguer, but a city of civilians, Curvo - ! Angaráto, Aikanáro, they were warriors. My people are _not_!" Finrod shifted away from him entirely and rose again, now with an audible gasp of pain at the movement of his shoulder. 

"Warriors, but you installed them in Dorthonion, eldest of your House here in Exile, is that the trouble? Guilt rather than fear?" Finrod made no answer. "And consider that you may have relied on the secrecy of Nargothrond for too long, and too entirely – where are your hidden tunnels, means of escape, if the enemy comes by the front door? A whole city, trapped, all her maidens, all her children?" 

He had grown to a dim spectre in the tent; outside darkness had fallen entirely, and only the shimmer of a watchfire nearby through the tarp provided some illumination. Finrod adjusted his breeches and pulled his shirt closed with his left, holding it there. 

"I am going to have the stitches replaced." Finrod stepped outside, and in the swinging of the tent flap Curufin caught a glimpse of autumn stars, lying high and bright on the firmament. The Sickle would be rising in the North now, crowning Thangorodrim low above the horizon, and he felt his lip twist at the thought. Ornaments. Unforeseen in this purpose, but ornaments all the same, and of defeat at that – Morgoth's Cleaver, as some called it, stretching south. Perhaps Finrod's urgency was not as entirely and amusingly abject as Curufin had supposed. 

Curufin felt the urge to rise and follow, but thought better of it, instead reaching for the broth he had brought before, to rinse his cousin's taste off his tongue with more salt. 

He righted his clothes and pushed outside into the crisp evening, and did not return for the night, but the following morning he entered the tent with his thoughts composed into an account of the Bragollach as it had gone in the North, drawing heavily on the accounts of Maglor and Caranthir, and the siege of Himring, the Orcs pouring through the breaches hewn into Aglon and Lothlann and the dragon coming with fire in his wake, as effortlessly in Dorthonion and the East Marches as he might come west. He spoke softly, and Finrod listened. 

**Epilogue**

"Six seats were left vacant due to the recent attack, unless you intentionally misinformed me." Curufin stretched his legs beneath the table and schooled his face into an impassive mask when Edrahil slipped into the seat beside him and froze to find Curufin there, with Finrod standing close behind him. The other members of the council began to murmur. Guilin, always impatient, shuffled the papers before him and cleared his throat, although not all seats of the council chamber were filled yet. Curufin regarded him with a raised eyebrow, and although the man scowled, he raised his voice no further, and instead watched with all-too-obvious satisfaction when Finrod spoke.

"That particular piece of information became dated as soon as I designated new councillors." Finrod laid a hand between Curufin's shoulderblades, a little to the right, precisely where Curufin knew a bandage still sat underneath the heavy robes of office that chafed away at Finrod's wound, which was slow to heal and continued opening. The King of Nargothrond tended toward restless sleep recently; more than once Curufin had woken to find his arm clawed and Finrod wild-eyed with the idea of raging fires on his mind, even the smell of smoke and metal in his nostrils. Even in waking the idea continued to haunt him, when he suddenly looked up, with his hand stilling on a chess-piece as they played, shook his head, and continued although the colour drained from his cheeks.

In truth, Curufin had merely taken to postponing washing after forge-work until his encounters with Finrod were past, wiping down only the obvious smudges, and it left a scent on him that he quite enjoyed, for its effect more than anything else.

Only then he became aware of Finrod's hand, now balled into a fist, the knuckles grinding down onto his spine, and something cool and hard on his finger causing Curufin to shift from the pressure: Finrod's ring of office. He suppressed a shudder – these were not private quarters, this was not a familiar touch, but for all that much more enticing.

"You need me, especially with the threat upon Nargothrond deepening, and the spies of the North seeking for it."

"And what can you offer that I am not already certain of, Lord Curufin? I have taken your private suggestions into consideration as much as any other, and I appreciate that you are so concerned. Nargothrond will surely thank you for such attention to detail, but I see no need to reward your courtesies with yet another office." 

From the corner of his eye he could see Edrahil, newly returned from Barad Eithel to negotiations successfully concluded and currently high in Finrod's graces, resting a hand on Finrod's forearm, smugly familiar. A point of Finrod's ring dug through Curufin's shirt unpleasantly, and Finrod continued pushing it while his face remained pleasant. Curufin leaned back further, trapping Finrod's hand between the chair's backrest and his back, and the point pushed the fabric apart enough to sting as he deliberated his words.

"It is not the office that I seek for itself. Our conversations in camp had me rethink more than one matter about the arming and defense of Nargothrond in case of war. It is to _offer_ , and offer more than I can in my current capacities and offices." 

"Offer what?" 

"Friendship in whatever need you have of me – and of my brother. We could be indispensible to you."

For a moment the pressure increased, and Curufin was certain he would soon see one point of Finrod's ring tipped with blood. Then his cousin withdrew his hand. He knew, of course, that such a choice was neither one born from love, nor from wisdom, but that Curufin spoke the truth in this - at least as far as it served him.

**Author's Note:**

> I can't thank the tumblr cheer squad enough for their help and encouragement, and generally for their tolerating my writhing around, but hereff and Anna in particular deserve a mention for being ever-cheerful and eternally patient with me. Thank you. 
> 
> The same goes to Zeen for her fabulous last-minute troubleshooting, and Dawn Felagund for the beta, which met all my expectations in terms of being splendid.


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